The Circus
by godcomplexLoading
Summary: Sugar. Spice. The collected screams of the damned as they claw their way up through the crusts of the earth. That is what little girls are made of. Welcome to Night Vale. An episode of Night Vale I wrote while bored in class.


Sugar. Spice. The collected screams of the damned as they claw their way up through the crusts of the earth. That is what little girls are made of.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Dear listeners, welcome. I hope you have recovered from the fun-packed excitement of last weekend. Recovery is highly recommended. Actually, recovery is strongly suggested. In fact, your complete recovery from this weekend is _demanded_. The Sheriff's Secret Police _demand_ that you recover more quickly from the violence-packed fun of the weekend, that you devote yourself more completely to cleaning up the aftermath of the violence-packed bloodbath of the weekend, and you are then ordered to forget the long, horrible, violence-packed, indescribable bloodbath that was the traumatizing horror of last weekend. It's what a good citizen would do, they remind you.

The Sheriff's Secret Police have also asked me to tell you **NOT** to be alarmed about the complete disappearance of all foodstuffs, cookbooks, and young boys below the age of six years, which have been missing since about 7 o'clock this morning.

"It's all just a misunderstanding," a representative said, staring at intern Justine, who had been requested specifically for this interview. "Aaaaall a misunderstanding. Those things that you miss, you don't really miss them! How silly would that be! Think about it? Do you really miss it? I mean…_food_?_Books_? Who needs those things? Am I right?" He then proceeded to stand at an uncomfortably close distance to intern Justine, and began to vibrate and hum like a machine that began to overheat. When asked about the missing children, the representative offered no comment.

On a related note, we offer the condolences to the friends and family of intern Justine, who, while not confirmed dead, has been missing since about noon.

The Starbucks off of Main Street is pleased to advertise their first ever SILENT SATURDAY which will be next Saturday. The sign put up outside the shop reads:

**SILENT SATURDAYS: FOR TWENTY-FOUR HELLISH HOURS, OUR EMPLOYEES WILL COMPLETELY IGNORE YOU AND YOUR INCREASINGLY DESPERATE PLEAS FOR NUTRITION AND HEALTH-CONSCIOUS OPTIONS AND ON-A-WHIM PALM READINGS…SILENT TREATMENT COMPLETELY FREE OF CHARGE SATURDAYS ONLY!**

The last bit is written in colorful sidewalk chalk, courtesy of our very own elementary school, who generously donated both the chalk and the workers to make the sign a reality. The chalk is a bit smudged by now, as the mysterious black liquid that the other letters had been written in was running in hideous thick rivers down the board in the heat of the day. Starbucks announces that the offer will end at midnight, or whenever their employees begin to go slowly and irreversibly insane from the complete silence.

Listeners, another traveler has come wandering into our little town out of the desert. This is the first visitor we've had since the unfortunate incident at the zoo. He's about six foot three, is completely bald, is wearing long red robes, and is described by witnesses as carrying two large suitcases decorated in faded floral patterns and emitting a scent that can only be described as being between the breath of a dying man and the subtle odor of an egg sandwich on the edge of turning. Witnesses also describe two little girls with him, dressed in identical purple kimonos made out of well-worn leather straps and rusted staples. The trio came in late last night, getting off of a bus no one remembers scheduling at a bus stop no one remembers existing. They went into an antique store, where it was reported they bought a single brass candlestick, a hollow porcelain kitten, and a large pillowcase with an unsettlingly discolored patch right where one's head is drawn to lie down. They paid for their purchases in brass buttons and threw their receipts away as soon as they left.

And now, a look at the Community Calendar:

Tuesday, the Night Vale Community Theater is opening their original musical, The Stairs. Attendance is by invite-only and invites are printed on invisible paper. Wednesday, the world is going to end, and we are all going to die. Thursday, we will continue to live our normal lives, unaware that we have passed out of the mortal plane. Friday, the sky will be invisible. Saturday, you will find that thing you lost all those years ago. On Sunday, you will lose it again. By Monday, you will forget it ever existed, and also someone is going to die.

The West Night Vale Animal Shelter would like to announce that, due to a recent increase in violent and unexpected pet-owner death, they are now overfull with cats, dogs, ferrets, barn owls, rattlesnakes, French parrots, unusually colored jellyfish, hamsters, howler monkeys, and pygmy goats. They are at this time offering to give three randomly selected animals to the first 100 people to show up to adopt an animal today, and that the cost of adoptions will be for this weekend, halved and tax-free. When asked what Strex-Corp, the new owner of almost every business in Night Vale, had to say about their decisions regarding the price choices made in light of this disaster, the four employees we were interviewing dropped dead, likely felled by the large black darts that were shot into their wrists from the bushes beside the road.

"Be careful! Don't trust the old man at the river!" another set of employees begged, covered in blood and scratches and beginning to sob as they watched the bodies of their coworkers wordlessly dragged away by people that wore macabre carnival masks. "Some of them are not animals at all! Some of them are _not_ animal—"

At this point, these employees also dropped dead.

Well, you heard them, folks! If you are interested in adopting three, adorable, loving, probably not dangerous animals, stop by the West Night Vale Animal Shelter.

And now an announcement for the children, or things that look like children, in our audience.

Have you forgotten to do something? Do you often forget to do things? Do you often forget to remember what you've forgotten? Do you often lose the motivation to remember to do things…to do anything…to exist at all? Do you struggle with the knowledge of the shattering truth of your own fleeting, fragile childhood and your own fleeting, fragile life in this vast, cosmically fleeting, painfully fragile reality?

Good.

This has been our Children's Fun Fact Science Corner.

An update on the three visitors. They have been seen heading into the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. As they traveled through town, they purchased several more items from some local shops, ate lunch at the Arby's, and even adopted three randomly selected animals, or things that look animals but are not. They have also set up signs outside every establishment they visit. When asked if setting up these signs was legal, Sheriff's Secret Police shrugged and pointed to the horizon and said, "What is that? Do you see that? What's that doing there?"

The signs are colorful and seem to be made out of patches of various fabrics and leathers, stitched by thick, multicolored threads. They advertise CONNIE CILLIBULE'S TRAVELING CIRCUS AND COLLECTORS. The advertisement appears to be in some kind of rudimentary Chinese dialect, and when asked to translate them, the travelers just say, "Humpback whales are not the culprits. Krill are not the culprits. You know who the culprits are. You know."

The signs, when translated by local archaeologist and escape artist Jacqueline Macy, say that the Amanda Birch Traveling Circus and Collectors are due to roll through town in about two days, assuming he translated the blood-stained archaic prophesy correctly. They advertise a host of attractions, including a portal to the endless black of the void. "It also says," Jacqueline reports, squinting and shifting uncomfortably under our piercing and unwavering gazes, "that those who do not know The Secret will be Collected. It's an honor to be Collected," he assures us, and says he fully supports bringing your whole family to the Circus when it comes through. After all, he reasons, what's the absolute worst thing that could happen to them?

I, for one, am delighted at the unavoidable inevitability of this circus's arrival. It's been a long time since a circus has come to Night Vale, the last one being the very memorable Invisible Circus in 2005, which left town with several dissatisfied teens and two very confused amnesiacs. With any luck, the Traveling Circus and Collector will be just as memorable.

In other news, a rise in the sale of violent video games to teens and children has led to a protest by the concerned parents of Night Vale, who insist that the sale of such games is ruining the integrity and safety of our little community.

"I mean, come _on_," said Bryce Munning, father of the well-loved high school tennis player Xzavier Munning. "Have you _seen_ these games? Can you /believe/ the kind of things they're teaching our children?" He then proceeded to beat the nearest person with his handmade sign, which read in large blue letters **DOWN WITH THE AUTOMATON**, having been seduced into a blood rage by the nearby chants of another parent. When he calmed down, he continued, "I mean _grenade launchers_? /Really/? What kind of shit are they trying to sell? Everyone knows the only sure way to use a grenade is to throw it yourself!"

Listeners, this is just the kind of homegrown weapons advice that makes our community so special. And he's right, of course! Who knows what kind of foolish ideas kids could get from games like that?

Other parents could not be reached, or quoted, for comment, but the general consensus seems to be that the content of the games is contradicting the gun safety and handling educational program that Night Vale has been so proud of for the past eleven years. The results of this impromptu riot have not been revealed to us yet, but we can only hope that the rallying calls of the people get through, and our children are provided with more educationally-conducive material.

And now, let's take a look at traffic.

Listen to me. Listen. Stop listening. There is nothing to hear. Talk. Stop talking. There is nothing to say. Read. Reading is illegal. Reading is safe.

There is a sign on the side of the road. There is a book on a shelf in the attic. There is a note left on the table under a wet cup. There is a man, screaming behind the door right behind you. So much screaming. So much blood.

So. Much. Blood.

This has been traffic.

John Peters—you know, the farmer—has announced that he is looking for volunteers to help him with tending to his invisible corn crop, which has been taking a beating with the dangerously vacillating weather conditions that seem entirely localized to his farms, which have yanked temperatures dangerously from -45 degrees F to over 137 degrees F. He says that anyone willing to go outside in the extreme heat and/or cold will be compensated upon their inevitable death by a lifetime supply of invisible corn to their grieving family members, who will use the food to fill the void in their lives left when you left. He also says any interested parties should contact him via messenger pigeon as soon as possible.

And speaking of conditions of unspeakable forces of nature, I give you, gentle listeners, the weather.

_["Body Song" by Patients]_

We at Night Vale Community Radio are pleased and surprised to retract our previously expressed condolences to the friends and family of intern Justine in the light of her complete and un-explainable disappearance. Just minutes after a missing persons report was filed by a strange woman with a limp and a eagle-headed cane, Justine and the Sheriff's Secret Police representative she was interviewing were both found in the company of the mysterious bald circus man. They were wandering the streets behind the Ralph's and holding the hands of the two little circus girls, staring at passers-by with dumb, gaping mouths and bulging, bloodshot eyes. The circus performers have informed anyone who cares to ask (which is almost no one) that Justine and the representative have been "re-employed," and will not be seen in their current forms in Night Vale ever again. That gives us two days, listeners, and I can hardly wait.

"You will see the truth when the Circus comes to town," the little girl on the right is reported to have said. She stared at those nearest her with wide black eyes devoid of all color and life, and a small black snake began to crawl out of her small, painted mouth. "Mourn and lament for your fallen sisters. Be afraid of their sharpened teeth. They have been set free. They have been enslaved. Do not grieve. Do not offer your tears to the earth. The earth cares nothing for your sorrow. The earth cares nothing for your life." She then proceeded to shriek and tilt her head back to an alarming angle. She then walked on as if nothing had happened, former-intern Justine firmly in tow.

Perhaps we have that to look forward to, listeners. The music and crowd and unrestrained amazement of the circus, with two of our very own added to its colorful and terrible ranks. I for one eagerly await seeing intern Justine in her new position, may it bring her much happiness and fulfillment. But in the meantime, how about you sit back and recover and do your civic duty by cleaning up the mess you left on the floor just two days ago. The Sheriff's Secret Police, and now our benevolent overlords StrexCorp, would like to remind you that the debacle of last weekend was tragic, but will only bring us closer as a community. And remember…we know what you did. We all know.

Stay tuned next for two hours of complete but important silence, followed by the heavily muffled voice of a man you are not supposed to know whispering secrets in a language you are not supposed to understand.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.


End file.
